Page 10 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

And three: This ranch has the kind of silence that isn’t peaceful so much as expensive.

The kind that says every board has been replaced before it could creak, every problem polished before it could show, every mess handled behind closed doors by people with very white teeth and very careful voices.

It should be comforting.

Instead, it makes me itch.

Which is exactly why, by Friday morning, I’m standing in the staff parking lot with my keys in one hand, my canvas tote slung over my shoulder, and my camera hanging at my side.

I need supplies. Highlighters, sticky notes, a new calculator because mine decided to die in dramatic protest on Wednesday, and something sweet before I snap at someone who doesn’t deserve it.

Also, if I stay inside Ironwood one more minute listening to Sherry explain the payroll filing habits while Cody hovers like a suspicious accountant gargoyle, I may actually climb out the nearest window.

“Town run?”

The voice comes from behind me, warm and easy and unfairly good at making two ordinary words sound happy.

I turn to find Duke crossing the gravel with a mug in one hand and a dish towel slung over his shoulder like he’s an ad for domestic competence.

Which is rude.

“Is it that obvious?” I ask.

He glances at my bag, my keys, then the expression on my face. “You’ve got the look.”

“The look?”

“The I need out before I commit a felony look.”

I snort. “Oh good. Thought I was hiding it better.”

“Nah.” He takes a sip from his mug. “You want anything from town, you usually come back with it in a paper bag and a haunted expression.”

“That feels weirdly specific.”

“It’s experience.” His grin turns lazy. “Need recommendations?”

“For office supplies?”

“For survival.” He leans one shoulder against a fence post. “Feed store if you need practical stuff. Larsen’s if you need everything and also somehow things you never intended to buy. Buckhorn if you need coffee, pie, or a reminder that people in this town can and will discuss your business over pancakes.”

“Good to know.”

His eyes flick to my camera. “And if you take photos while you’re out, avoid getting Carl Benson in the background. Man sees a lens and starts posing like he’s up for office.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. Duke looks altogether too pleased by that.

“Anything else I should know?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He tips his mug toward me. “If Tommy Jones at the feed store offers you gossip for free, it isn’t free.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“That’s Colter Creek.”

With that, he pushes off the post and heads back toward the house like he didn’t just drop a warning disguised as flirtation into my morning.

I watch him go, then shake myself out of it and climb into my car.